Page 65 of The Fire Line

“Probably Grandma.”

Harris moved closer. His fingertip found Nell’s name, the line beside it sitting nearly level with his from the same year.

“She cheated,” Harris said.

Navarro looked over the camera. “How so?”

“Stood on her toes.”

“To beat you?”

“To piss me off.”

“Did it work?”

“Every damn time.”

Navarro laughed, the sound moving through the empty house and briefly occupying rooms that had held nothing but weather and mice for decades.

There it was again—the unarranged version of him. Head tipped slightly back, eyes narrowed, amusement escaping before he could turn it into something meant for an audience.

The man was so damn easy to look at. Harris forgot to make himself stop in time.

Navarro lowered the camera, and their eyes met.

Caught.

Harris turned toward the stairs before either of them could make anything of it.

They found a bundle of papers in an upstairs cupboard: receipts, grazing records, and a drought letter dated 1934. Harris sat next to the window and read part of it while Navarro filmed.

After Navarro seemed satisfied with the film stuff, they ate a quick lunch on the porch, then rode another two hours toward the lookout. The trail climbed until the timber thinned and the land dropped away beneath them. Smoke from a distant fire blurred the western horizon—not close enough to change the route or require a call home, but present enough to alter the light if you were paying attention.

The lookout sat on a bare granite shoulder above the valley, its paint nearly erased by weather and several windows missing completely.

Harris dismounted first and tied his gelding in the narrow strip of shade beside the structure. By the time he turned, Navarro had already pulled the camera back out.

* * *

Jay had been pretending not to notice Harris watching him for most of the day.

At the homestead, Jay had caught him staring when he laughed. Harris had turned away quickly, but not before Jay saw the arrested quality of his expression—the brief failure to disguise where his attention had landed.

On the trail afterward, Jay felt Harris looking at him more than once. But whenever he glanced over, Harris appeared to be studying the timber, the western sky, or some invisible ranch problem located conveniently near Jay’s body.

None of it actually proved anything. Harris watched everyone—animals, weather, family, guests—as though any of them might suddenly require his intervention. Jay had used that explanation after the equipment room, but repetition had made it increasingly unconvincing.

At the lookout, the attention felt sharper still.

Jay filmed the building from below, then climbed onto the weathered porch and ducked through the empty doorway. The interior was a square room little larger than the line cabin, with gray walls and windows facing every direction. Wind moved freely through the broken panes, carrying the smells of warm granite, pine, and faint smoke from the western fire.

Harris remained outside while Jay changed lenses. Even without looking, Jay could locate him in the doorway, a steady presence at the edge of his concentration. When Jay glanced over, Harris leaned one shoulder against the frame, hat hanging from one hand.

He was watching Jay rather than the view. Again.

Their eyes met, and Harris redirected his attention toward the valley.

Interesting.